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Today I locked my keys in my car. On a street I didn’t know the name of. On my way to a meeting. For which I didn’t know the address.
My handbag was trapped in my car, along with all my money, my RACV Roadside Assist membership card, and the keys, glinting smarmily in the sunlight. Right there on my front seat. Thank Christ I had my phone in my pocket.
I called my housemate and wailed with distress to him. But he was on his way to his own meeting. He gave me the RACV phone number however.
Then I called my beautiful workmate Nay, and wailed to her. She told me not to stress, and gave me the address for the meeting I was supposed to be attending. Though I couldn’t get there, because my street directory was in my car.
Then I noticed that my phone battery was about to die. So I called the RACV, and wailed further to them. I had to run in my high heels to the end of the street, and search the telephone poles for the name of the damn road so they could send a man to help me. (Corner of Reserve and Kooyongkoot Roads, Hawthorn.) This is a wealthy area, with many gleaming SUVs parked in steep driveways beneath towering glass mansions filled with modern art. My 1987 Barina with it’s faded P plates looked so out of place, I was afraid some loaded resident would have it towed if I left it alone.
My boss called me and told me I should have a magnetic key stuck to the underside of my car. Yeah, thanks for that.

40 minutes later, the RACV man arrived, and took all of 2 minutes to break into my car, using a piece of wire and a wedge of rubber that looked like a piece of parmesan cheese. And I was only an hour late to the meeting. Nice!

My sister is such a hoe. I love her but jesus. EVERY time I announce my intentions of buying tickets for something, she wants to come. I ask her is she sure? Yes. I tell her the date and the time of the event. Yes she is free. I tell her the location and does she want me to pick her up on my way? Yes. She would like that. (Will she pay me back for the ticket? No she will not. But I buy it for her anway.)
But inevitably, the day comes, and she doesn't answer the door when I knock on it. She doesn't answer her phone. She is hungover. Or sleeping. Or at someone elses house. And she has left her ticket at her house. And she has locked herself out of the house.
I TOLD her Gotye's show was tomorrow. Admittedly I didn't know it was a matinee, but nevertheless, I told her many times. I bought the tickets. I drove into the city to pick them up with no reasonable chance of EVER getting a park only to have one materialize biblically like a burning bush, right out the front of the ticket office. I invited along another person to this event who I DONT want to be left alone with but enjoy within a group.
But of course, my darling sister has dropped out of the party. It's her boyfriend's birthday (apparently she didn't know this at the time of ticket-purchase) and she doesn't know how much she's going to drink tonight. But she evidently suspects it will be enough to prevent her from attending anything for the next 3 days. Damn that woman.


Also, today I saw a couple of documentaries as part of the Melbourne Film Festival.
Billy the Kid was the one I just loved.
There's not much publicity for this film in Australia, although I know it's got a lot in the US, winning the jury prize at SXSW, and it don't get much more indie-cool than that. But there's no media-on-the-SW-pulse here. So I didn't know too much about this film, except that it was about an "intriguing 15 year old growing up in small-town America."
So of course I assumed it would be one of those precocious borderline-genius kids that Americans are so fond of. He'd be self-important and misunderstood in his ignorant rural community, an uppity outcast at school and completely aware of the camera at all times.

Instead I just fell in love with this kid. He was so vulnerable and sweet and sincere when he said 'you might think to look at me that I'm a very tough cold person. But inside, I'm a very sensitive person. I think my eyes give it away.''
He just wanted to talk to everyone about horror movies and Gene Symonds, and his alcoholic father. Drink a coke, eat some chips, and hang out with his mum. (His mother by the way, was just amazing. If only every mother could be so wise and nurturing.)
I think because this film is so micro, it speaks so distinctly to the individual (depending on how much emotional distance they've put between themselves and their high school insecurities.) And therefore becomes so marco. These things that a kid goes through are the same the world over. It's just that this particular kid is so odd and transparent as he does it.
Loved it.

My new teacher Brad is probably only a few years older than me, a tiny guy, who stands neatly with his ankles crossed, in tight black jeans.
He pulls his eyelids wide to emphasize his points, wears his ipod earphones round his neck like a stethoscope, and peers over our shoulders as we work to a delightful mix of modern jazz and weird ironic pirate music. He's great.
I bet his Macbook has a name. Like ....Corey.

Tonight there was a small going-away dinner for a girl at the office. Hye Young, my beautiful Korean friend was the main hostess of the evening. She cooked a South Korean feast with steam rolling in clouds and her arms flying in 400 directions. She'd screened off the main entertainment area of the studio, and lit it with candles, and had someone's computer playing iTunes in the background. She's SO cute. It was her little masterpiece. We cracked open about 4 bottles of wine and started dinner.
Presently I became aware that the background music had moved from delightfully early-90s pop, into an epic orchestral score. I asked whose iTunes playlist is this, and Addy, said it was his. "This is my programming music" he said.

I think my boss is working toward saying something to me about how late I arrive at the office these days.
Often it's well past 10, and he is in boardroom meetings by the time I arrive. Everyone else is well underway at their desks, talking quietly with clients, flipping between Illustrator and Photoshop windows, pointing to the screen and murmuring businesslike.
I however am not going without breakfast. So I rustle around with the cereal packets in the kitchen, drizzle honey on and lick the spoon.
I like to think the secret is that I am such a damn good designer and worker, that I am above reprimand.
But secretly I suspect I have yet to be blasted because my boss fears I might cry, and then he'll have to apologize.